


The Hound King

by wolfheartedgirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, crack!AU, no this isn't supposed to make sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfheartedgirl/pseuds/wolfheartedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the smallest pieces can change the game. What happens when Sandor Clegane follows a path he had never meant to tread?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Road to the Throne

**Author's Note:**

> My very own cracked out AU done for fun.
> 
>  
> 
> and a very big thanks to my wonderfullytalentedmostamazingbeta, onborrowedwings, who put up with my raving insanity :D
> 
> Go check out her work [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onborrowedwings/pseuds/onborrowedwings)!!

He did not plan this. He neither thought before he acted nor planned to play this game. When he had been captured on the Gold Road, he had been wandering aimlessly, hoping for an end. When he was dragged, bound and gagged, before the supposed Aegon Targaryen, he’d been ready for death. He had welcomed the idea.

What had he to lose that he had not already left behind?

But Aegon thought himself honorable. Noble. Rhaegar come again.

He was also a young boy and a Targaryen at that, hungry for glory and a name. So the green boy challenged The Hound to single combat. Sandor wanted to laugh. Wanted to spit. Wanted his Little Bird. Instead he got a bastard sword and poorly fitting plate and a bloody fight in a circle of ragged, weary sellswords.

It took only a moment. Just a split second for the Dragon Prince’s step to falter and then The Hound’s sword came down and down and down and the mud sullied the Prince’s silver hair as his head fell from his shoulders and bounced to lie at Sandor’s feet.

\--

 

Later Sandor would realize what had happened and when. Would remember that moment when the Golden Company turned on Jon Connington and the other Targaryen loyalists because their Silver Prince, lauded as immortal, was very mortal and very dead and, after all, when are sellswords ever truly loyal?

It was only a half-formed thought in his head when he mentioned Casterly Rock and the hidden passages he’d learned as a Squire, and two months later he realized he’d spoken too many of his thoughts out loud. He stood in the Golden Gallery and spared a thought for Tywin Lannister and knew that had the old lion still lived, this never would have happened. 

As the Golden Company looted the Rock and pillaged Lannisport, as their captains bought horses and armor and wine and whores, Sandor looked at the sea and tried to figure out what he was going to do now. 

He thought of Joffrey poisoned at his wedding feast but survived, and the rumors of Cersei’s increasing madness. He thought of King’s Landing, lying like a crouched beast atop the High Hill. He thought of red hair and Tully blue eyes.

_Little Bird…_

He is not sure when it happens but suddenly the Lords of the Westerlands are at the Rock and before he can respond, before he can flee before they take his head, they have sworn swords and Houses to his cause. He thinks them mad. Knows they see in him an opportunity. A way to beat back the madness that the Lannisters have become. A way to get themselves into power – if only they can be the next to master the Rabid Hound.  So they promise gold and ships and fealty and he _knowsknowsKNOWS_ in the way a hound knows that they are all liars and frauds.

Four months they are at the rock with only token resistance. The loss of the old lion had declawed the Lannisters. The rest are too busy trying not to lose King’s Landing to Tyrell’s entirely, and the Tyrell’s are too busy trying not to lose King’s Landing to the remaining Lannisters.

Word comes then, from King’s Landing. Sandor can barely hear over the roar of the sea and pounding blood in his ears; words filtering through just enough to make him understand… words like _Sansa Stark_ and _found by Littlefinger_ and _black cells_ and _execution._

He rides out that night and it surprises him that the Golden Company follows. He has never understood what it is to have men on his side, but his Company and those leal Lords hungry for _more_ follow and because King’s Landing is not expecting them, and because the Lannisters and Tyrells are too busy fighting each other, the city gates are open when they arrive and they pour through the streets like locusts.

Sandor is focused single-mindedly on his goal and pays no attention to how many men he cuts down or who they are. Barely registers when he stops seeing Gold Cloaks and just how few Lannister men stand before him. It takes too long, he thinks, but then suddenly amidst the screaming and din and roar of battle he is inside the Keep and going _downdownDOWN_ into the bowels of the dungeons. There are sellswords with him, men he almost trusts, and when they see him breaking down doors they follow suit without question though they do not know what he is seeking.

He finds her huddled in a heap of rags and filth in the deepest of the cells, nearly frozen and half-starved and too thin but _alivealiveALIVE._ She barely stirs as he lifts her – her weight is less than feathers in his arms and his heart hammers in fear – and he climbs back _upupUP_ out of the dungeons and through the bloody mess the Keep has become.

Sandor knows he is injured, but it is nothing. Less than nothing. His Little Bird is in his arms and she is shivering and sobbing and terrified. She is too fever-sick and delusional to know who has her; does not understand that she is _safe._

Sandor sends men to find maesters, food, water, and clean clothes. He lays the girl in Cersei’s bed, not caring who may find them, only that he will kill anyone who comes near. He holds her close, comforts her as best he can (he did not realize he even knew how to comfort) and mutters over and over that she is _SAFE_.

\--

 

When his Little Bird is tended and warm, he goes in search of his captains and finds them in the Throne Room. Cersei and Joffrey and Tommen have fled. The Tyrells have fled. Sandor is too happy with himself to notice them. Too pleased and proud that he finally, finally saved his Little Bird as he should have all those years ago when the sky burned green. As it was at the Rock, so now he is too lost in his own thoughts to respond quickly enough and he realizes, then, that his men are saying something to him. That all in the room are on their knees before him and there are swords laying in front of his scuffed, muddy boots.

He hears something that sounds like _Lord of the Seven Kingdoms_ and _Protector of the Realm_ and hears men swearing fealty to House Clegane.

It is not until one of the men cuts down a Lannister banner and hangs Sandor’s own blood-stained tabard (he’ll never know how the man got the thing so quickly) in its place that he _REALIZES._

Oh.

Oh Bugger.

 


	2. King Takes Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound King takes a Wolf as his Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The madness continues!

It is six days before her eyes open.

Six days while he frets and curses and tries to give up the crown he did not want, and the kingdom he did not intent to fight for. In the end he realizes that if he is to keep his promises to his Little Bird, if he is to keep her safe, his only option now is to keep the crown.

He is not a Lord. Not a Knight. If he gives up his crown to someone, anyone, he will be no more than the leader of a company of sellswords and his Little Bird will once again be a highborn hostage. A pawn once again in the this game of thrones.

It occurs to him that he may have just inadvertently won the game.

It is this thought, above all else, that settles the matter. He will keep his crown, though he does not want it, and keep his kingdoms, though he knows not how to rule them.

…and he will keep his Little Bird safe.

\- - 

Sansa’s eyes flutter open on the evening of the sixth day, and at first the soft voices in the room sound like screams to her ears. The candles are brighter than the sun and the blankets heavy as plate… but there is something… something familiar. Buried in the cacophony her battered senses perceive, is a sound that soothes her frayed nerves and calms her racing heart. A sound she thought never to hear again.

It is a sound like steel on stone. A harsh rasp. Dogs snarling in a pit.

It is only her weakened state that keeps her from weeping in relief.

Years in hiding, years of surviving as a bastard, of Littlefinger’s pawing and groping and his drunken kisses and slurred whispers of “ _Cat..Cat..my cat..”_ How she dreamed of that sound, in those years. Dreamed of harsh lips and a bloody cloak. Later, of calloused fingers on her heated skin and strong arms around her and a throbbing ache she did not, at the time, understand.

And now he is here… wherever here is.

She remembers little. Remembers Baelish saying they would travel to Harrenhall and remembers preparing to leave one morning. Remembers being invited to break her fast with her so-called Father…. Remembers the tea tasting funny and her head spinning and then nothing... nothing but darkness and intermittent flashes of light and the sensation of being held down and liquid being forced down her throat.

What she does not know is why he did it. She is ignorant of the fact that Littlefinger’s suit for Harry failed. That he was left with few options and less support from the Lords Declarant. That rather than give up his one valuable piece, Littlefinger decided to win himself back into Cersei’s deranged favor by delivering into her hands the girl she believed responsible for her son’s near-death.

There will be time for that later; time for questions and answers. For now there is a large hand behind her head, and warm broth at her lips, and deep grey eyes that hold her warm as any blanket.

\--

She heals slowly and he assigns four men he trusts to guard her when he cannot be with her. Though she is afraid of the city and untrusting of everything (except him), she experiences the Keep as it should be – not as a cruel cage, but a palace of kings.

She is spoiled rotten and finds it amusing that the man who hates Knights, who loathes chivalry and favors and romance, spends so much effort sending her gifts.

She does not have to sew her own clothes now. Does not need worry that her dresses might grow too short or too tight during her stay. Sansa is flooded with silks and satins, rich, soft wools and thick furs, dressmakers and seamstresses; handmaidens to brush her hair and prepare her bath.

 …and there are fresh lemon cakes with her dinner every night.

Sansa cannot quite believe that he is king now. When he first told her she thought she was dreaming. She’d laughed and he’d looked almost hurt and then she’d realized SHE hurt – and since one does not feel pain in dreams she decided that it must be real.

The Hound was the King.

_Her Hound…_

\--

She sits with him in Council (always at his right) and in the evenings he seeks her out for further discussions. It goes unspoken that she is the one with the head for ruling. Between her birth and status and her time with Baelish (she tells him, one night, of her time in the Vale and spares no detail and the next day he sends forty men out to scour Westeros to find the Mocking Bird, promising the Stormlands to whomever brings him in alive), she has a better understanding of politics and economics than the Lords and Knights on his own Council.

She spends their time together explaining things to him and giving him advice, and he spends it cursing the Lords on his Council and the Knights under him and the crown on his head.

She is with him so often that soon, no one questions it. If anyone wonders why the King demands the Keep’s Godswood repaired and expanded, if they wonder at the amount of soil he orders shipped in and how he sets a nearly obscene award for a Weirwood sapling, no one dares say anything to his face.

Winter has made short work of Stannis, and his remaining army has been relegated to the Night’s Watch. With the Lannisters all but destroyed, the Tyrells not far behind, and winter lying heavily on all the Kingdoms, things are nearly peaceful.

Sansa uses Baelish’s own contacts to broker deals with the Iron Bank and Pentos, and soon ships laden with food and supplies are putting in at Eastwatch and White Harbor and Maidenpool and King’s Landing.

\- - 

She is three years with him in King’s Landing when winter wanes and a false spring dawns. As roads thaw and travel becomes possible, tensions begin to rise. _You must wed,_ his advisors tell him. _A marriage to broker peace. A good match. A strong match._  

The suggestion of whom he should marry surprises him – but not nearly so much as who makes it. 

His Little Bird looks at him evenly and makes her case.

Join the North and King’s Landing, as King Robert had once planned to do…

\--

They are wed on a spring morning in the new Godswood. The Heart tree is a slender thing still, but taller than the King, and its red leaves are the same color as Lady Stark’s hair when she walks towards him in her cloak of white and grey.

The High Lords and their ladies are so concerned with not muddying their finery that it is only Sansa who notices Sandor’s big hands shaking when he fastens the yellow-and-black cloak about her shoulders. It is only Sandor who notices how tightly she grasps his hands, how her voice waivers, as she recites her vows.

She does not dare admit how much she _wanted_ this… he does not dare allow himself to believe she did at all. 

Her Hound King places a rose-gold circlet on her head and kisses her and Sansa does not point out that this would make such a wonderful song…


	3. The benefits of taking one's time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound King and his Queen come to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for mention of past abuse
> 
> Also: SMUT
> 
>  
> 
> Also: this chapter is unbeta'd. Please don't hate me.

On their wedding night, she sleeps curled beneath the finest furs and linen sheets and wakes, sometime in the night, to find her King – _no, husband, he is my husband now –_ stretched across the foot of the bed. His only concession to touch is the big, warm hand splayed across the lump that is her ankles under the blanket. 

He will not touch her until he is sure she is ready. Until _she_ is sure.

She has told him what she suffered at Baelish’s hands. Sandor vows he will throw himself into the fire, burn alive for eternity, before he pushes his Little Bird to do anything she does not _want._  

He makes no hint at how much he wants her. 

When she wakes then, the night of their wedding, and finds him sprawled at the foot of the bed it makes her sad. As if he still sees himself as unworthy. As… _as a dog._

She wants something she is not sure how to name. The heat pools low in her belly at the rough rasp of his voice in her ear, and the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder, or in hers when they walk together. (She likes it best when he holds her hand in his big one, calloused skin rough against her palm).

The King – _no, Sandor, his name is Sandor and he is my husband and I am allowed to be Sansa now –_ is nothing like Petyr, and there is something about the warmth in those big hands and the solid breadth of his chest that makes her wonder what it might be like if she…

They keep this pattern for a fortnight. He sits on the edge of the bed, or with his back against the headboard, and always clothed – until she sleeps. At some point she will wake to find him at the foot of the bed, always with his hand on her foot or ankle, but never any higher. He is always gone in the morning. 

Until…

One night she wakes and sees him and wonders… so she carefully tugs at the blankets and _shifts…_

He wakes to warmth against his chest, to heat and a slight weight. Grey eyes open and he finds his vision clouded by a swirl of red… His nose is buried against the crown of her head, her face against his chest; her knees are tucked up to press low against his belly and her shins run the length of his thighs. He can feel her toes just above his knees. One of her hands is tucked between them, her little fist against his chest, and her other is lying hot and soft against his neck. He can feel the slight tug from where her slender fingers have curled themselves into the ends of his dark hair. 

His Little Bird has curled against him like a pup, and he tamps down a rush of shame when she moans softly against him and his cock turns from morning discomfort to solid steel so fast his head spins.

The next night he falls asleep beside her – though she is under the sheets and he under the blankets but on top of the sheets because, he thinks, he should keep a barrier.

\--

Sometimes, when they are alone or otherwise not the center of attention, she catches herself looking at him in such a way… His voice is not the harsh rasp she remembers – it is comforting now, something she has come to _need_ , and she understands but doesn’t understand the feeling in her tummy when he says _Little Bird_ just so…

…and there is something about hearing him say _Sansa_ in his sleep-roughened voice, first thing in the morning, that leaves her wet and shaking, though she does not know how to tell him so.

Finally, after two more months of watching him and sleeping with him – but not _with_ him - Sansa finds herself sitting in bed watching her Kingly husband unlace his boots. It has been a long day full of councils and audiences that she knows he cannot stand.

She is tired. Knows he is tired. She is uncertain and yet certain and finds herself blurting, “I want you…” 

His head snaps up instantly.

She falters, “I mean,” grasps, “I want you to touch me. Like a wife. You know… I mean.” Sansa is aware her face is nearly the color of her hair, but she knows how much her husband appreciates honesty, so she bulls ahead with little regard for her growing mortification. “I want you to take me.” 

Sandor knows what she means, but does not think she does. “Have you thought about this, Sansa?”

The sound of her name makes her toes curl. It also, for a moment, makes her forget her nervousness. “I want to lay with you as a wife should lay with her husband. I want…” her face turns a shade he will later, affectionately and amusedly, come to call ‘fuck-me-red,’ “I want you inside me.”

Later he will also confess that he had to bite his tongue to keep from coming in his breeches just then.

“Little Bird,” his unlaced boots are forgotten. He stands and crosses to the bed, kneeling before her and absently noting that he is only just now at eye-level with her, even with her on the edge of their high bed. “Not until you are sure.”

\--

Eventually he gives in. Let’s her have her way. He stands motionless, hands at his side, and lets her undress him as slowly as she would like. Lets her explore. He does not raise a hand to touch her; for a long while he shows no reaction save for his cock, hardening and jerking as her hands slide on his skin.

Soon he lies down with her, feels he is less threatening that way, and lets her continue her exploration. He shudders when her fingers find their way to the thick hair at his groin. He nearly comes when she cups his balls in her hand, nails lightly scraping the thin skin.

Sandor does not touch her at first. He keeps his hands to himself until he can stand it no longer, and then only allows himself to touch her arm, lightly stroking the soft skin of her shoulder. When she is ready, and only then, she lifts one of his hands in hers, kissing his knuckles before laying his palm against her teat.

“If I do something you don’t like, you tell me,” his voice is firm and insistent – as insistent as his cock throbbing against his belly, “but if I do something you like, tell me that too.” The last is said with a soft smile and he tightens his grip on her teat just enough to make her gasp.

They touch and explore and fondle. Her hands are sweet torture on his cock; the slick, thick wetness between her legs leaves him panting as it coats his fingers and smears on his palm.

He works her slowly. He has her on her back but he does not place himself over her; he keeps his bulk and weight off to one side and simply leans over to reach what he wishes to taste and touch.

The hour of the wolf finds him on his knees on the floor, her legs over his shoulders, his tongue sweeping her cunt from top to bottom. Sandor does not hold her down, does not keep her hips from rocking, and does not try to keep her in place. He lets her writhe and twitch and jerk as she pleases. He sucks hard on the little nub of flesh at the top of her cunt and she _keens_ in a way that makes his own toes curl.

He allows one hand to wrap tight around his cock. Gives himself a few rough strokes; spreads the moisture at the tip with his thumb. He is forced to squeeze himself almost to the point of pain to keep from peaking as she comes hard against his face, juices dripping down his chin and matting his beard.

He thinks she tastes like spice and summer and the sea and the sharpness of fresh snow. She tastes like heaven. 

It is near dawn when he finally moves to embrace her fully. He clutches her against him – they are on their sides because he will not force himself over her nor ever hold her down unless she _wants –_ and she moans so sweetly as he pulls her leg over his hip and shifts her closer against him.

Sandor spends a few long moments teasing her cunt with the head of his cock, drawing out moans and sighs and sweet whimpers that shoot straight to his balls. She is wetter than he could have ever imagined and it is _for him._ All for him. Because of him. He feels absurdly pleased with himself. He would be puffed as a peacock - _I have made her this wet. I have made her want me like this –_ if only his cock wasn’t so hard it made his eyes cross; if only his balls weren’t drawn so tight he feared the skin would split.

He pushes into her and she throbs with aftershocks, her cunt clenching at him so tightly he can barely move inside of her.

\--

Sansa thinks that if there is a heaven, or seven, or ten or a hundred, they must all pale in comparison to this. 

He has been slow and patient and gentler than she has seen him since she woke, sickly and scared, in Cersei’s bedroom to find the Hound King looming over her.

She wants more. _Needs_ more. She shifts and tugs and begs softly into his kisses and, finally, he allows her to pull him on top of her. It is not what she imagined; yet it is everything she imagined.

_This is how it should be…_ she thinks. This long, sweet, aching heat. No fear. No pain. No harsh grabbing or yanking or _hurting_. Just the gentle, hot glide of his cock in and out and in and out and the scrape of his chest hair against her sensitized nipples. 

He is the vault of heaven over her, his shoulders a wide arch, horizon to horizon. He is a big man when clothed, imposing when armed and armored, but naked he is ancient and elemental and everything she had wanted as long as she could remember _wanting._  

Her head sinks into the cool of the pillow below, and above her is the perfect gold-and-speckle of his neck and the coarse bristle of his beard and the long, chord-and-tendon lines of his throat. 

Each thrust lifts her and rocks her and knocks the breath from her lungs.

She angles her hips and some instinct forces her ankles to lock together behind his arse. The position causes the head of his cock to spear against some point inside of her and wetness rushes to meet the glide-and-thrust of his hips as he fucks her.

Pressure builds and boils in her belly and before she can think, her nails are biting in to the skin of his shoulders and she is sobbing in time to the clenching of her cunt and if he would only just. Keep. On. _Right. THERE._

When she comes her cunt clenches so tight he cannot move. Cannot keep fucking her. He is stuck in the silken vice of her as she pulses around him and suddenly it is too much; he feels his balls tighten and draw up and _hiscockswellsandhisheadspinsandhisvisionblurs…_

\--

He wakes sticky and throbbing; his morning erection is pressed between her thighs and the head of him ever-so-close to the heat of her cunt.

He finds himself wondering if his little bird is a light sleeper…  


	4. O Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mockingbird in a cage, but not for long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter features lyrics from the song 'O Death' by Jen Titus.
> 
> Chapter is unbeta'd
> 
> Warnings for violence.

_O Death,_

_Won’t you spare me over another year…_

He cannot remember how long he has been running.

For a while he was able to hide in his own brothels and inns, was able to be somewhat comfortable in his flight. Soon, though, his face and name were too synonymous with the price on his head. He was too hunted, now, to worry about things like feather beds and hot meals.

He hides in shantytowns. Burnt out farmhouses. He has little skills for survival but his tongue is silver and his pockets lined with gold. He charms and bribes his way to the coast, to a port, and thinks he smells freedom.

He was _almost_ free when he was found. _Almost_ on the ship. He could feel the tilt and sway of the gangplank beneath his left boot; he was almost free. A hand on his shoulder, rough voice in his ear, a laugh… That was the end of his freedom.

He was knocked unconscious and taken somewhere. Then, somewhere again. When he was allowed to wake he was kept hooded and chained; he saw nothing, but thought he recognized the damp cold of the Riverlands and the burnt-stone smell of his own Harrenhall (not his anymore, though).

Now, an interminable time later, he waits in darkness and silence and _screams_ though no one hears.

 

_But what is this that I can’t see_

_With ice cold hands taking hold of me_

It is dark when he wakes. Darkness is all he has known for he-knows-not how long. A darkness that has him seeing things that do not exist and hearing things in the silence.

It was better when no one heard, because when the door finally opens a torch flares in his darkness and gleams off of scale and plate and slick scarred skin.

He knows, now, that he is lost. Knows he is at the mercy of a man who has none, would show none if he did.

 

Petyr Baelish looks into the face of death and bows his head before it. 

 

_No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold_

_Nothing satisfies me but your soul…_

There is surprisingly little violence, only a light slam and a casual toss that left him with shattered teeth and a broken rib.  Through it all, his doom only smiles. 

Baelish thinks that his feral smile does little for his face. He thinks that right up until the point where the King grabs him and shakes him like a dog with a rat and Baelish feels hot piss run down his legs.

“No sword for you; I promised my Little Bird I would kill her tormenter with my bare hands,” Sandor squeezes and Baelish has just enough time to see the muscles of the King’s arm bunch and ripple before he is lifted off the ground by his windpipe.

The King never blinks. Never flinches. Just smiles that snarling smile and _squeezes_ and the last thing Petyr Baelish knows – as his bowels loose and his body becomes a corpse – is the hard grey gaze of the Hound King. 

 

_My name is Death and the end is here…_  


	5. When You Stand Before the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound King presides over the first of many trials...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd and rather short chapter.
> 
> I realize some of these seem a bit out of order in the timeline, but I'll rearrange chapters as I go to make them flow a bit better...

 

No one could have expected that when he’d perchance met and then beaten Aegon Targaryen in single combat that the Golden Company would have flocked to his side – the irony that the craven of Blackwater, who ran from the fire, slew the dragon prince was not lost on many; none were quite so surprised that he turned on his former masters so rabidly, however.

 

That so many of the noble houses would fall in line with him was a shock – though most assumed they would take the Throne through him, not for him….

 

When Joffrey Waters – no longer Baratheon and never Lannister – is led before the Throne with his mother (his beautiful madmad _mad_ mother) he stares up in awe at the only man who was ever a father of any sort to him. He cannot find his arrogance within himself anymore. It has been sucked out of him by the sleep-deprived flight to Casterly Rock and then the rough journey back in a cage on wheels.

 

There is talk of incest and misdeeds and mistreatment  of the Queen from the small council and all the while the King is silent. Grey eyes never waiver from Joffrey’s face and he almost, almost wants to smile. This man was his friend, wasn’t he? This man would not hurt him…

 

The death sentence is passed and the chance for any to speak in his defense comes and goes... goes...goes…

 

A voice in the back of the Throne Room calls that, “I will speak for him, my King,” and Joffrey and Cersei look at each other in recognition and slowly turn their heads…

 

An auburn haired creature glides past and up the stairs and he watches, disgusted and shocked and afraid, as Sansa Stark – no, not Stark anymore – perches herself so daintily on her husband’s knee, like she could sit the Iron Throne itself and not feel the bite of it’s edges.

 

“All I ask, your Grace, is that you show Joffrey and Lady Cersei the same kindness and hospitality that they have bestowed upon me for all of these years.”

 

There is a ripple of a gasp and a titter of laughter through the crowd and Cersei smiles,“Little Dove…” and in her insanity thinks she’s won.

 

Cersei’s smile is twisted and Sansa’s is serene and the Hound King’s grin is terrible to behold.

 

“I am told a King should not strike a King…” King Sandor Clegane never takes his eyes off of Joffrey’s face. Never drops that snarling smile… not even as he directs his next statement to the nearest member of his Kingsguard.

 

“Ser Lancel, do me the honors….”

 

 

 


End file.
